


Eleven

by FancifulRivers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, In which Harry has a breakdown, Murder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 02:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12998391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulRivers/pseuds/FancifulRivers
Summary: Harry commits his first murder when he's eleven.





	Eleven

You look down at your hands, still wet from the sink. You missed a little bit of soap foam, clinging to the side of your right hand. They don't  _look_ like a killer's hands. They don't drip thick, oozing red. They aren't ashy with gunpowder and you've never seen a switchblade beyond quick glances of the telly. ( _But isn't your wand just as bad, isn't your wand a murderer's weapon all the same..._ )

But it wasn't your wand that killed him.

His body's on the other side of the Hospital Wing. All covered up and surrounded by privacy screens. You heard Madam Pomfrey and the Headmaster talking about it. They thought you were asleep. You wish you had been. You don't want to know that your victim lies in the same room as you. Your guilt chokes you, filling your throat with the sharp, painful taste of something burning.

You know what your friends would say. It's not your fault. He was going to kill you. You didn't know that touching you would make him burn.

You didn't. Not at first. But then you- well, you  _used_ that, didn't you? You  _made_ him touch you. You touched  _him_ and you  _held on_ and the smell of burning never once left your nose, though it made you cough like a dying man (like  _him_ ) and tears stream from your eyes.

It was Voldemort's fault, not yours. The Headmaster told you that, but you don't think you believe him. Voldemort possessed Professor Quirrell, but you're the one whose hands were covered in burnt and blackened bits. You're the one who fell to the ground, unconscious, while Voldemort's shade decided to abandon its burning host. You're the one who-

You don't want to think about it anymore.

You get to leave the Hospital Wing tomorrow. Madam Pomfrey reluctantly gave you a clean bill of health, as long as you behave yourself. As long as you don't do anything too strenuous. As if you have a choice. It's not like you can tell Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon to lay off you for a while, you've had a hard week, you killed a man. They'd probably have you locked up. Maybe you  _deserve_ to be locked up. Kids can be locked up for murder, you know that much from the news. It doesn't matter that you were just trying to protect yourself, that you didn't really know what was going on. Who would believe you?

Maybe when you get out, Hermione and Ron will tell you that they don't want to be your friends anymore. That they're scared of you now. That they're scared of what you'll  _do_ to them.  _You're_ scared of what you might do to them. What if they make you angry? What if your mother's protection extends to that, too, and you burn anyone you're mad at? What if you  _kill_ them, too?

You don't realise you've gotten out of bed until you look down and your feet are bare and cold on the floor, and you're- You swallow hard. You're right in front of the privacy screens that hide Professor Quirrell's body. His- his remains.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, like he can hear you. Like a dead man can talk back. "I'm so sorry, I didn't- I just-" You rock back and forth, arms wrapped around you to fight off the chill.

"I'm bad," you blurt out. "I didn't mean-" But you  _did_ mean to, that's the problem. Even if it was only in the moment, you  _did_ mean to. Hot tears trickle down your face and you scrub them away with one white-knuckled fist. You shouldn't cry. You aren't  _allowed_ to cry. You're a murderer.

"Potter?" It's Snape's voice, rough and harsh, and you flinch as one hand comes down on your shoulder, turning you around. "What are you doing out of bed?" He sneers. You swallow hard.

"N-nothing, sir," you say. 

"Then why are you at Quirrell's bedside?" He asks, and you freeze. 

"I- I-" You don't know what to say. What can you say? "I want- I wanted to apologise."

"For what?" Snape sneers again. "It's certainly not  _your_ fault he's dead."

"Yes, it is," you burst out, as the Potions professor guides you back to your bed.

"Oh?" He says. "I was unaware that you had previously forced him to host the Dark Lord before he returned to the castle."

"No-not that," you say, flustered. "I- I touched him, and he- he burned. And then I-" You stare down at the sheets, plucking at them as if they can reveal the answers you so desperately want to unravel.

"Self defense, Potter," Snape said, sounding bored. "Nothing more."

He strides into Madam Pomfrey's office. Moments later, she bustles out and hands you a vial.

"Dreamless Sleep," she assures you. "I don't know why I didn't think of it before. Drink up, Mr. Potter."

You do and you find your eyes sliding shut before you can stop them.

Later, just before you leave the castle, the Headmaster comes up to you and gives you a slip of parchment. You look at it, confused.

"What's this, sir?" You ask.

"A little bird told me you were having difficulties," Dumbledore says, with a slight wink. "So over the summer, I thought it prudent for you to see a Mind Healer so you can talk about what happened. I'll send Petunia a letter to explain, don't worry."

"Oh," you say. "Okay, sir." You beam, stuffing the parchment into your pocket.

It's only a start, but you feel a tiny bit lighter as you run to meet your friends.


End file.
